


and if i die tomorrow

by Macremae



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Missing Scene, Multi, episode rewrite, pining Hilbert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: “And this is the last time I’m ever going to see you.”“Well… not exactly.”--The Hephaestus has many ghosts





	

**Author's Note:**

> so i was going to include lovelace and minkowski too but that conversation was already perfect and i was all out of ideas. anyway i posted a section of this under my "fanfiction I won't write" tag, but i got so many requests to actually write it a thought eh what the hell

The brig of the Hephaestus is a fucking broom closet.

Kepler was sent to the observation deck, but Jacobi is surrounded by cleaning supplies, several brooms and mops, and a jug of bleach he is seriously considering chugging for all it’s worth. It’s filthy, smelly, and utterly demeaning.

It’s also way too quiet.

Not a regular, simple quiet, but one that begs for any kind of noise. It’s thick and choking, crawling into Jacobi’s head and wriggling around. His thoughts swim unpleasantly, buzzing like a cloud of scribbles on paper. Every so often the Hephaestus creaks, but it only serves to make the environment even more unnerving.

“Some brig,” Maxwell says cheerfully.

Jacobi’s frown deepens,“You’re telling me. It’s a miracle these people managed to deal with one rebellion, let alone two.”

She makes a noise of agreement, before they lapse into silence again. It lasts a few more moments, before Maxwell looks at Jacobi curiously. “You really see me, don’t you?”

Jacobi holds her gaze. “It’d be kinda useless pretending I didn’t.”

“But you know-”

“Don’t, Alana.”

At the use of her name, Maxwell starts a little. Jacobi sighs, and looks away, his shoulders sagging under a weight she can’t quite see, but can fully understand. “Just… not now. At least let me enjoy denial a little bit.”

Her gaze turns from surprised to somber, and she moves a little closer. Her hand rises just over his shoulder, but lowers as she realizes the futility of the gesture. Dismayed, she tries again.

“Jacobi-”

“Look, can we just- not talk about it? Please?” he asks, still turned away. “It’s been kind of a long day.”

“This little hallucination of yours isn’t going to last much longer. It’s now or never, I’m afraid,” Maxwell insists.

Without warning, Jacobi spins around furiously. “What the hell do you even think there is to talk about, Maxwell? You’re dead, she killed you, end of story.” He laughs bitterly. “And a happily ever after for all.”

Maxwell makes a face like she doesn’t buy his humor for a second. “And this is exactly why we need to talk. You’re hurting, Jacobi, I get it, but eventually jokes aren’t going to cut it. Take a breath, turn off the mirth machine, and talk to me. It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do.”

Jacobi does as she says and takes a deep breath, curling further into himself. “I can’t, Maxwell. I just…”

“I know. But please, please just talk to me.”

He seems to consider her words for a moment, before sighing again. “You’re really gone, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she replies quietly.

“And this is the last time I’m ever going to see you.”

“Well… not exactly.”

Jacobi snorts. “Please don’t give me some crap about you ‘always being with me’. We both know you’re not that ridiculous.”

Maxwell gives him a tiny smile. “You’re talking to me now, aren’t you? Daniel, we’re family. We have been since we became a team. Like it or not, I’m always going to be there, through a post-mortem hallucination or whatever. You of all people should know I can’t be rid of that easily.”

Another creak passes through the ship as Jacobi slowly reaches for Maxwell’s hand. Her fingers feel like air, resting in just the right position to appear solid against his. 

“Monsters?” he says.

“Monsters.”

\--  
Hilbert is, apparently, a very persistent ghost.

“What’s up, doc?” Eiffel says humorlessly, eyes flicking up from the floor. Hilbert refuses to reply, only stares at the thing clutched in Eiffel’s hands.

“Hey,” he says, gesturing with the bottle chidingly, “ _you_ are a ghost, so, y’know, dead. Don’t be judging me.” 

Hilbert raises an eyebrow in response, but waits a moment before speaking.

“You were always a strong man, Eiffel.”

Eiffel bursts out laughing at this, the sound dripping with scorn. “Strong,” he says, head thrown back, “ _strong_? I don’t know who the hell you think you worked with for the past few years, but that guy sure as hell wasn’t strong. Stubborn? Sure. Obnoxious? Oh hell yeah. But strong?” He laughs again, quieter and darker. “Not the word I’d use.”

“I would.”

The words come suddenly, and Eiffel feels his heart shudder. He looks up at Hilbert, who seems surprised as well. 

“Why?” Eiffel asks softly, his voice breaking a little.

All the air leaves his lungs as Hilbert replies, “You know why.”

He does. Oh, he does.

A silence stretches on between them as both struggle for what to say. The pounding in Eiffel’s heart has now reached his ears, and his whole body feels hot and cold and shivering and still. His head swims, taunting him. Doug Eiffel and The Voices, back again.

Beside him, he hears a breath, but it can’t be a breath because ghosts don’t breathe and Hilbert is a ghost and a hallucination and a mirage and _he’s never coming back_.

It all tilts. Of course it does.

“I loved you,” says Hilbert’s voice, and he’s not real, not real, not real.

Eiffel can feel his stomach twist itself into knots, vision blurring from the tears or the drink; it’s hard to say. He takes another swig to be sure.

“I know,” he says quietly.

Hilbert is a genius. Hilbert is a sadist. Hilbert is a brother and a dreamer and a thinker and a pusher and a very, very complicated man.

Hilbert is a fool and Hilbert is dead.

The weight of that truth is crushing and terrible, perhaps because, in a way, Eiffel always sort of knew. It is a strange, swallowing truth that demands more grief than it deserves. 

So Eiffel grieves, just a little. He grieves not for Alexander Hilbert, or Elias Selberg, or any other name he might have once had, but for Dmitri Volodin, the little boy who dared to hope, and paid the ultimate price for it.

Because when is a monster not a monster?


End file.
